Bumps In the Road

My main blogging PC crashed a week ago.  My visiting son-in-law installed a new wireless router and fixed my newest PC–that also had issues.  I’m, once again, soaring into the blogosphere.

Perhaps some of you have submitted DNA samples to one of those genealogy websites?  Formerly a skeptic, my spouse participated.

During the fifties, in rural Mid-America, extra-marital affairs were kept hush-hush.  Her paternal grandfather, was not blood-related?  She’d heard  whispers during family gatherings as a child.

Not long after DNA results were tallied, the e-mails began.  An unknown person with a considerable amount of shared DNA.  A long-lost cousin?  Surely, it couldn’t be true.

In discussions, a young lady in her forties, from my wife’s hometown, revealed details about her family.  There were too many coincidences.  Family pictures shared, and the secret was out.

There were no living relatives, to confirm or deny.  Family secrets–should they be kept secret?  I inclined to think they should be, unless it’s for health reasons.

If only computer problems and genetics were the worst things that happened this week.  On Tuesday, my wife slipped and fell while debarking from a dolphin cruise excursion boat.  She fractured her pelvis in two places.  As bad as it was, it could have been worse.

Nothing was displaced, and she can ambulate cautiously with a walker.  A painful injury to be sure.  Our visiting daughter is a nurse.  She helped to clarify questions regarding prognosis and treatment.  For the near future, I’m stepping up my game around the house.

 

 

 

“You Put Things in the Strangest Places”

From the initial frightening moments of my wife’s accident, we’ve transitioned to scenes of amusing awkwardness.  Her two-week check-up went well–except for some light-headedness during the X-Ray session.  I was amazed at the amount of hardware, pins, and screws.

I’m thankful for the assistance of caring friends and neighbors.  A friend brought over some yummy, home-cooked, black-eyed peas and soda bread.  Yesterday, Mrs. “P,” from across the street, helped me do much-needed house cleaning.  She cleaned the bathrooms.  I cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed the floors.

It’s surprising the amount of damage, a few boil-overs and microwave explosions can do.  On a positive note, this second string chef was on a winning streak, until yesterday; when my macaroni and tomatoes didn’t have enough sugar.  It had something to do with acidity, and was, apparently important.  Also, I’m sure the space shuttle could have been built, in the time it took to peel my boiled eggs.

Laundry is going swimmingly.  Dark clothes, light clothes–never the twain shall meet.  I knew that from college dorm days, and don’t need to go into further details.  Grocery shopping is better, with my bride nearby–to oversee selection of necessary victuals.  Surprise of surprises–I was informed that I wasn’t aggressive enough in the supermarket.  That’s why other shoppers were cutting me off.  I was advised to emulate Chicago rush hour drivers.

It was good to have help and not end up with odd surprise items; that looked good to me in the store, but not so good at home.  Who knew there were so many different kinds of potatoes and onions?  Did you know that russet potatoes aren’t really red?  It shook up my entire belief system.

Being a personal valet has been a source of amusement.  My slightly off-kilter mind needs no help in wandering astray.  I wondered whether other people might stare at my wife and think–“Gee, your husband sure dresses you funny.”  I’m sure they’d be too polite to say it out loud–even if they were thinking it.  I’ve been tempted to pull up her stretch pants right up to her chest–“old man style,”  but thought the better of it.  She’s still got one good arm–that cast could do some damage against the side of my head.

My wife is much neater and more organized, than I’ll ever be.  That’s why I keep hearing, “You put things in the strangest places.”  She doesn’t understand or appreciate my impatience.  This morning, while emptying the dishwasher, I asked, “Honey, where does this mini-radar beacon go?”  It turned out, that it was a small strainer, and not a radar device at all.

Rinse, lather, repeat; rinse, lather, repeat; condition, moisturize–please don’t mention the whole hairdressing scenario.  Keep it on the DL.